


The Customer Is (Not) Always Right

by Xandra_Fox



Category: The Legend of Zelda: Skyward Sword
Genre: Angst, Customer Service, Gen, Humor, POV First Person, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-23
Updated: 2014-06-23
Packaged: 2018-02-05 23:06:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1835518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xandra_Fox/pseuds/Xandra_Fox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Follow the chronicles of Rupin the Gear Peddler as he scams unaware customers, tolerates irritating co-workers, and attempts to conquer his first world problems. Skyward Sword, as told through the eyes of a cynical shopkeeper.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Bizarre Bazaar

There he is. The village idiot. I would never call him that to his face, of course, or people would know what a horrible person I really am.

He sits on a stool at the Bazaar's bar, his love handles spilling out from underneath his ill-fitting shirt, a ratty ponytail trailing down the back of his thick neck. I could go on and on. I know nothing about him, other than he's here when I arrive in the morning and he's still here when I leave at night, wasting away at the bar. I don't blame him; I would probably be drowning my sorrows in pumpkin juice too if I had ended up with such an unfortunate appearance.

I catch my reflection in a decorative plate hanging on the wall and straighten my hat, squinting my eyes tight to hide how bloodshot they are. I smile wide and turn to greet the village idiot.

"Good morning, sir!" I trill happily, trying not to let my gaze wander to the greasy clump of chest hair sticking out of his shirt.

He lifts his head and gives me a blank stare, his eyes unfocused and dim. "Morning," he grunts, returning to his plate of burnt scrambled eggs.

Still smiling, I tip my hat to him and continue down the Bazaar to prepare my shop for the day. If I can look this guy in the face without regurgitating my breakfast, I am ready to face anybody.

On the way to my shop I stroll past Gondo, tinkering with some invention of his in the Scrap Shop as usual, and the bored girl who runs the Item Check. Her dead, lifeless eyes stare straight through me as I pass through her line of sight. Coming up on my left is Sparrot the fortuneteller. I avoid eye contact. I round the corner and...no. No.

They're back. That loathsome couple that owns the Potion Shop across from me is back. They took leave for a few weeks because they just had a baby, and what a glorious few weeks those were. But now Goddess forbid, here they are again, setting up their gigantic potion vats in a row along the far wall. The wife has to be the most unattractive woman I have ever had the misfortune to lay my eyes upon. No, really. I can see her mustache from all the way across the room. Her name is Luv, but I just call her Manhands. In my mind, anyway. Jammed back in the corner is her mousy little husband, Bertie. He's not such a bad guy in of himself, but I've seen what he mixes into those concoctions of his and it is not sanitary.

A reluctant sigh escapes my mouth. I suppose I should say hello. It's not as if I can just ignore them without being perceived as rude.

"Welcome back, friends!" I smile and wave to them merrily as I walk the rest of the way to my shop. "How nice it is to see you again." Not really.

The hefty Manhands drops whatever it is she's doing and turns to face me. "Hey, Rupee!" she shouts, motioning for me to come over there. "You gotta see the bay-bay!"

My lip twitches involuntarily. Rupee? Since when were we on such friendly terms? "Oh, I'm sure I will sometime!" I say, because I totally want to throw away an afternoon at their house just to see the "bay-bay."

A gruff laugh erupts from her mouth. "No, silly! I meant right now!"

She points to her husband. Glowing with pride, Bertie turns around. And then I see it. In a sling on Bertie's back is the ugliest baby I have ever seen in my life. It has a funky-shaped head, a turned-up pig nose, and I swear its eyelids are pointing in two different directions. Clutched in its grip is a large, clunky blue rattle that it's currently slobbering all over.

"Ahaa!" I exclaim, clasping my hands together. "What an adorable baby! What's its name?"

Bertie opens his mouth to speak, but Manhands cuts him off before he can utter a single word. "Oh, we haven't named her yet! But she's a girl!"

So I guessed right. Honestly, I couldn't tell for the life of me. "I thought so! My sincerest congratulations," I reply, smiling. Suddenly, the ridiculousness of this arrangement settles over my mind. Really? Who brings their infant child to work? Who does that? Last I checked, it wasn't bring-your-daughter-to-work day.

"Daww, look at her!" Manhands coos. "She just loves that wittle rattle of hers! Isn't she just the cutest—"

"Mm hmm," I say, nodding my head. I sneak a peek at the clock on the wall. 7:55. It is nearly opening time and I still haven't made preparations. Gradually, I begin inching back toward my storeroom, still facing the gibbering Manhands. As I drift further away, she projects her voice to make up for the distance. The village idiot can probably hear her all the way from the bar.

When I finally reach the storeroom door, I unlock it and dart inside. I keep up a stream of generic commentary as I gather up my display gear and neatly arrange it across the counter, sprinkling the gaps in Manhands's drivel with gems such as "mm hmm," "ah," and "I see." I smile and nod, smile and nod, feigning interest in what she has to say, but it's difficult to keep my eyes on her as I'm setting up. She seems to get annoyed every time I look down.

Once I'm done with opening preparations, I prop my elbows up on the counter lean forward to catch a snatch of the conversation I haven't been participating in.

"—It's really interesting!"

It really doesn't sound it at all, I want to say. "Oh, I believe it!"

She opens her wide mouth to blather on, but the sound of approaching footsteps cuts her short. We both turn to see people entering the Bazaar.

"Aye!" Manhands bellows, smacking her giant man hands together. "Potions! Potions! Get your potions here! Returning sale today only!"

A few people drift toward my shop tentatively, but then they take one look at her and hurriedly shuffle past. I have to stifle a groan. There she goes again. She's always clapping those big, knobby hands of hers like some kind of ape woman, trying to badger passerby into buying her potions. But all she's doing is frightening away potential customers. My potential customers. She just doesn't get it! Attracting customers is a very delicate operation. You can't harass them before they've even had a chance to scope out what you have to offer. You have to hang back at first. Let your wares pique their curiosity and bring them in. Once you have them, then you harass them. I want to explain this to her, for my sake rather than hers, but I can't seem to figure out a way to put it lightly. Manhands is the type of person one must walk on eggshells around.

When all the potential customers have emptied out of the immediate area, she waves at me to get my attention. Not in a good place to pretend to ignore her, I oblige and look up. She picks up where she left off and starts yammering about her baby again, but her words go in one ear and out the other. As I smile and nod, all I see are her fat lips smacking together in succession, spraying bits of saliva out into the walkway.

Suddenly, a flash of yellow to my left catches my eye. I turn to see a young man in a yellow knight's uniform making a beeline for my shop. A customer! The perfect excuse to abandon this one-sided conversation.

"Hello, my friend! Looking for something in particular?" I pipe up, for it is clear this young man is walking with a purpose.

"Hello!" the knight greets me, taking long strides up to the counter. "And yes, there is something..." He reaches over his shoulder and unhinges a wooden shield from his back, one of my craftsmanship. A deep crack runs down the shield's center, nearly cleaving it in half, and the wood is charred in places. Sometimes I wonder what people are doing with my shields. For some reason, my eyes wander to Manhands. She's still talking. To me. Why is she still talking to me? I catch her eye and give her a gentle nod of dismissal, but she can't take a hint. She just keeps running her mouth. I turn my attention back to my customer.

"Ah, yes. I'm afraid this one has outlived its usefulness," I say, shaking my head at his broken shield sadly. "Wooden shields will break easily if they take too much abuse, not to mention the flammability. It's an unfortunate property of wood." Why won't this woman shut her trap? Can't she see I'm busy trying to help a customer? Is she blind?! Shut up, I scream at her internally, wishing there were some way to drill my thoughts into her mind. Shut up! "I take it you are looking to purchase a replacement?"

"No—well, yes," the customer stammers. "I was actually hoping to find something a little more durable."

I smile a little wider at this. "Ah, then might I suggest purchasing an iron shield? It's a tad more expensive than the wooden one, but I assure you, the extra durability is well worth the cost!" I hunch my shoulders and bow my head ever so slightly. "Unfortunately, we don't have them in stock just yet, but I can put in a special order just for you and have it ready for pickup in less than twenty-four hours! For a small fee, that is."

The customer runs a hand over his floppy yellow cap, considering my offer. His eyes flick to the space on the counter where I usually display my metal shields, no doubt looking for a price label that doesn't exist. Any salesman who actually wants to make some money knows never to reveal his prices right off the bat. Meanwhile, Manhands is still talking at me from the other side of the room. I ignore her and focus my undivided attention on the customer in front of me. I know what's coming next, and I cannot risk losing him. Not when I have made it this far.

"What's the price of the iron shield?" he inquires, right on cue.

"Aha, yes! The price," I stutter modestly, as if it hadn't occurred to me until just now. "With the additional fee, it can be yours for just 110 rupees! Shall I take your name down, friend?"

The corners of his mouth dip into a frown. Not a good sign. Just then, I notice an unusual silence stretching between here and the Potion Shop. In my periphery, I see Manhands casting dirty looks in my direction. What is the matter with this woman?

"It's a little expensive for me to afford right now," my customer says quietly, "but I need to get a new shield as soon as possible. Can we haggle?"

I scan his features carefully, but I can detect no deceit behind them. I don't think he is trying to cheat me. "Yes of course, my friend. I am always willing to compromise," I tell him, dashing into the backroom. Sometimes when selling a big item like a shield, it's better to knock the price down just a little bit than to forfeit the sale completely. Of course, the customers only think they're getting a deal. I overprice all my wares to begin with so I still get my fair share. I grab a clipboard and an order form and return to the front of the store, quill poised at the ready. "What name shall I put you down as, friend?"

"Pipit," he replies.

"Alright, Pipit, I'll tell you what," I say, jotting down his name, "I'm willing to drop the pre-order fee and knock a few rupees off the flat price, bringing your total down to 95—"

"You know, Gondo repairs shields!"

My mouth drops open. Simultaneously, Pipit and I both swivel our heads in Manhands's direction.

"He does?" Pipit asks, raising a pointy eyebrow.

"Yup!" Manhands beams. She leans forward, placing her hands on her hips. "Just bring that hunk of wood right on over to the Scrap Shop and he'll fix you up for cheap!"

I gape at her in disbelief. Who does this woman think she is, sticking her oversized nose where it doesn't belong? Can't she mind her own business?! What was even in it for her? Nothing! That didn't benefit her in any way whatsoever!

Suddenly my customer turns to look at me, and in that moment I realize my smile has fallen off my face and been replaced with a scowl. I immediately revert to my cheery demeanor.

"Um...I'm just going to check the prices at the Scrap Shop," he says awkwardly, scratching at his spiky brown hair. "I might come back."

Yeah, right. It's loads cheaper to get a shield repaired at Gondo's than it is to purchase a replacement from me. "That's quite all right my friend!" I assure him, waving him away as if it's no big deal. "Quite all-right! No matter what you decide to do, I wish you the utmost amount of satisfaction."

Returning my smile, he thanks me for my time and strolls off toward the Scrap Shop. The gentle chink of rupees bouncing around in his wallet grows fainter and fainter with each of his steps, taunting me. In a flash of irritation, I shoot a poisonous look in Manhands's direction, but she's not looking.

I heave a great sigh, letting the upper half of my body droop forward until my hands are almost touching the floor. I can tell it's going to be a very long day.


	2. Petty Vengeance

"Y'know, I think that Gondo's on to something over there. I ought to whip up a brew that can repair shields!"

I just stare at Mahands with a blank look on my face as she tells me about her new potion idea. I am astounded. I can't believe she still has the nerve to speak to me after what she did, as if she's completely unaware of the precious rupees she just cost me. Does she even care? No. Does anyone ever display the slightest sensitivity over the hardships of a fellow individual? No. The answer is a resounding no. How can someone be so tactless? Or maybe she's just plain stupid. Yes, that must be it.

When I can't stand to listen to her anymore, I take an early lunch break and head over to the Bazaar's restaurant. I buy a cup of pumpkin soup and retreat into my storage room to get some paperwork done. I have to finish writing up the orders for some new iron shields so I can put them in by the end of the day.

About ten minutes into my break, I get the feeling someone is watching me. I peer over my shoulder to see a pair of customers awkwardly staring at me through the doorway. How annoying. Why can't people come to my shop when I'm actually working?! I even put out a sign that reads: On Break – Be Back in 30 Minutes. It's right next to the big NO REFUNDS sign no one ever seems to notice.

An irritated noise gurgles in the back of my throat. Reluctantly, I get up from my desk and move out into the shop, leaving my half-finished cup of soup behind. I put on a smiley face and greet the two customers — a thickset man with beady eyes and a young woman with two long brown braids trailing down her back. Since these two clearly don't know how to read, I point to my sign and kindly inform them about my policy on refunds after they purchase their satchel of deku seeds. I always make a point to do this whenever someone buys something from me, but time and time again, people still ask.

From then on, the rest of the day proceeds as usual. Manhands continues to talk my ear off. I sucker a few people into buying some bombs. Instructor Owlan from the Knight Academy buys a wooden shield to give away as a prize at the graduation ceremony coming up the day after tomorrow, but that's the biggest sale I make. Each hour seems to tick by at a slower rate than the last, my energy diminishing along with them. Eventually, it nears that time of day when people begin to empty out of the Bazaar, and I become nothing but a mindless robot, repeating the same four words over and over and over again.

"Have a good night!" I chirp to a group of departing shoppers. I keep up the most pleasant smile I can muster despite my exhaustion, in the vain hopes that one of them will remember my friendly face and decide to shop here tomorrow. Some of them stare straight ahead without saying a word. Others look at me like I'm a stain on the floor.

The girl who bought the deku seeds from me earlier is approaching. "Have a good night!" I yell to her. She spares me a short glance and mutters a halfhearted "thanks."

"Have a good night!" I say to an older gentleman, who gives me the stink eye in return. I disregard his rudeness and prepare to farewell the next person.

"Good night!" I tell the departing Item Check girl. She ignores me.

"Have a good night!" I say to another passing customer.

He stops and looks at me. His eyes are lifeless with stupidity. After a long, awkward moment of staring at each other, he turns and continues on his way out. Really? He can't even open his mouth and offer a simple "thank you?" Not even a nod?! I'm the one who's been standing here all day! Have these people any idea how much energy it takes to remain this bright and chipper so close to the end of my shift?

"I really don't care if you have a good night," I whisper after the man once he is out of earshot. I turn to see off the next group, a trio of Knight Academy students. I don't know them by name, but they're regulars around here. That ginger oaf with the ridiculous pompadour, that smarmy little midget, and that revolting, mouth-breathing, used cue tip of a person.

"Have a good night!" I call to them cheerfully.

The trio completely ignores me as they walk by, sniggering over some joke that surely only a five-year-old would find amusing. "Good night!" I say again, but they are already gone...

I want it back. I want the time and energy I wasted telling these people to have a good night back.

I inhale, then exhale, rubbing my tired eyes. Clearly, no one is going to buy anything else today, so I start packing up my displays. As I'm transporting the last of my gear back into the storeroom, I notice scrawny little Bertie hobbling toward my shop, his hideously misshapen baby clinging to his back. He's so severely bent at the waist he looks like his spine could snap at any moment.

"Rupin," he breathes when he reaches the counter, sounding as if he just ran a mile. "Can I borrow your broom?"

"Of course, my friend!" I say right away. I grab the broom leaning against the back wall and hand it to him.

"Thanks," he mutters weakly.

I give him a friendly nod. "My pleasure." Really. It's a wonder they're even bothering to clean up that pigpen they call a potion shop. Speaking of which—I turn a wary eye across the walkway, but it seems Manhands is nowhere to be found. "Where's Ma—" I catch myself. "Where did your wife go?"

"Oh, the missus..." Bertie sighs, scratching the back of his sandy head. "She went home already. She gets tired from running the business all day. I have to let her get some rest sometime, right? Ha ha..." he gives a little chuckle, an anemic smile on his lips. For just a moment, I see through a narrow window into this man's life. What does he put up with day by day?

Without warning, the baby lets out an ear-piercing wail, startling us both.

"Shh! Don't cry, don't cry!" Bertie hushes her gently, taking the rattle out of his pocket. The little demon spawn snatches it from him and quickly begins to settle down. Bertie heaves another tired sigh and turns back to me, his features sagging. "Well, I better get back to cleaning. Thanks again, Rupin."

And with that, he turns and limps back across the hallway. I am never getting married.

It's almost closing time, so I take my hard-earned money into the storeroom to count today's earnings. This is my favorite part of the day. This is when the fruits of my labor finally pay off. I empty my apron of rupees out on the table and separate them by color. Green, blue, red, violet, silver and gold: a satisfying rainbow of glittering gems. After subtracting my initial one hundred, I carefully count the number of rupees in each pile and multiply them by their color values to calculate the final profit.

"Drat!" I exclaim, pounding my fist on the table. Only 170 rupees! That's the worst profit in weeks! I guess I have that ape woman to thank for scaring away all my paying customers. Steaming with frustration, I lock my rupees away in my vault and slam it shut. I walk back out to the shop and see that Bertie has left for the day and my broom is returned to me, propped up against the counter. But that's not the only thing that's there.

That rattle. That rattle is sitting on my counter. Smothered in drool and snot and crawling with an invisible colony of germs. My face screws up in disgust. What is it doing here? Does Bertie hate me or something? Did he just not notice?!

"Ugh!" I gag. Well, it's not like I'm just going to let it sit there all night. The whole shop will have to be quarantined. Cringing, I hesitantly pick up the handle of the rattle between my thumb and forefinger. I sprint out back to the dumpster, holding the filthy thing as far away from my face as possible, and fling it into the nearest trashcan. As I'm catching my breath, a small smile—a real one—curls my lips. Serves them right.

I start to walk back inside, and suddenly the pettiness of this entire situation dawns on me. Well, whatever. If Bertie's going to carelessly leave garbage on my desk, I'm going to put it where it belongs. In the garbage.

After wiping down my counter three times and washing my hands four times, I head back through the Bazaar, making sure to nod to the village idiot on my way out. When I step outside, that usual sense of relief washes over me, that sense of knowing I can safely drop my cheery defenses. I look up at the sky. The sun has completely set, but the dark-blue clouds beyond the light tower are still tinged orange around the edges.

I walk down the hill and cross over the bridge to get to my residence on the southeastern part of the island. I know I'm almost home when I see the graveyard up ahead. My backyard. A long time ago, it was the most popular hangout in Skyloft. Every kid, and I mean every kid, wanted to play with me in my spacious backyard. Then one day I came home from school and found a bunch of people burying dead bodies in it. It turned out my mother sold our property so she'd have more money to squander on commodities. And my friends only liked me for my yard.

I sigh. It seems like such a trivial thing now, but back when I wasn't old enough to fly anywhere else on my own, it was a huge deal.

I arrive at my house and grasp the doorknob, not bothering to switch the sign hanging from it to OPEN. I'm far too exhausted to run my nighttime treasure buying business this evening. And besides, Gondo is practically my only customer and his face is one of the last things I want to see right now. Once inside, I see my mother's rotund form bending over the coffee table in the middle of the room. Sometimes I think I am pathetic, twenty-five years old and still living with my mother. Most of us leave the nest by our late teens. Then again, Gondo and I are the same age and he's still living with his mother too. It makes me feel a little bit better, knowing I'm not the only loser in this town still leeching off his parent. Misery prefers company, I suppose.

"Oh, good, you're home!" my mother exclaims, whirling around. Her shrill voice is like a knife to my ears. "Will you come over here and give me your opinion on something?"

I can't help but groan. "Not now," I say, massaging my aching forehead.

"Oh, come on! It'll only take a minute." Her tone suggests that she won't take no for an answer. She directs my gaze down to the coffee table, where she has spread out an assortment of antique paper fans. She snatches up a green one and a purple one. "Which one do you like better? This one?" she asks, fanning herself with the purple one. "Or this one?" She hides the purple fan behind her back and switches to green.

I let out an annoyed sigh, still rubbing my head. There's no point in arguing with her. She will always win. After a second of consideration, I point to the green fan.

"Really?" she says, holding them up to compare them side by side. "I think I like the purple one."

I throw my arms in the air. "Why did you even ask me then?"

She just shrugs and goes back to puzzling over her antiques. I heave another tired sigh and retire to my corner of the house. One day I'll save up enough money to buy my own place and move out of this hellhole. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but one day. I just have to keep telling myself that.

I collapse facedown on my bed to sleep off my migraine before it's time to go back to work again.


	3. Trash Picking

Pumpkin. I'm so sick of pumpkin. Pumpkin soup, pumpkin muffins, pumpkin omelets. That's all they ever serve here. So now here I am, hungrily waiting for the cook to finish making the two large pumpkin pancakes I ordered.

Avoiding my gaze, she slides her spatula under one of the orange cakes and lifts up an edge to check if it's done. It's not. I feel a twinge of annoyance. How long does it take to make pancakes?! I've been standing here for over five minutes! I cast an anxious glance in the direction of my shop, trying to refrain from staring at the cook and making her feel uncomfortable.

Finally, she flips the pancakes onto a plate and hands me my food. It's about time. I fuel up on black coffee and sit down at a table far away from the village idiot so I don't lose my appetite. I take a sip of coffee, relishing the bitter, nutty taste as it slips down my throat. It's surprisingly good. I prop my elbow up on the table and rest my heavy head on my hand, waiting for the caffeine to dissolve some of the haziness in my mind. No matter how many hours of sleep I get, I always feel like an absolute wreck when I wake up. Especially when my mother does the waking by repeatedly opening and shutting her closet doors at six o'clock in the morning. I come here to get away from my mother. And then I go home at the end of the day to get away from everybody else. And then the cycle repeats, over and over; a never ending cycle of misery. Such is my life.

Suddenly, a short old man wearing a brown doo rag catches my eye. I realize I have been staring at this guy in a daze for the past fifteen seconds, or rather, staring through him. I immediately look down and focus on my pancakes, keeping him in my peripheral vision. Oh no. What is he doing? He's walking over here, heading straight for my table. Why is he coming over here? There are empty tables all over the place! No. Go sit over there! Go away!

"Hello!" I perk up and acknowledge him with a friendly smile when he reaches my table. A wave of exhaustion immediately comes crashing over me with the effort. People. They're all just a bunch of parasites conspiring to suck the life out of me.

For a few seconds, the old man just stands there at the other side of the table, studying me with his beady eyes. "You may not know me," he says, "but I know you. Rupin."

I gaze up at him expectantly, but he doesn't say anything else. How in the world am I supposed to respond to that? "Um, yes. That's me," I answer awkwardly. When he still doesn't elaborate, I ask, "can I help you?"

"How about I buy us a beverage?" he offers.

So he came all the way over here just to offer to buy me a drink? How insulting. Do I really look so needy? "I'm fine, thank you," I say, lifting up my cup of coffee. I'm too proud to accept charity from random strangers. Doo Rag turns around, and for just a moment, I think he took the memo and is leaving to sit somewhere else. But then he slides another chair up to the table and plops himself down across from me. I groan internally. What makes this old man think I want to make boring small talk with him? I just want to eat my breakfast in peace and be left alone. Is that so much to ask?

"Hey, I may be old, but I'm not boring."

I blink at him. Uh oh. Did I look bored just now? "Ahaha, you're not boring me! Not at all," I say, grinning. He doesn't look convinced. I must not have enough caffeine in my bloodstream yet. I press my mug to my lips and take a large gulp of coffee.

"Let me share a bit of wisdom that might come in handy down the line," the old man says. He leans back in his chair, crossing his arms. "The name's Croo, by the way."

Croo. I'll probably remember that for the next...whoops, already forgot it.

"Anyway," he goes on, "the sky is full of floating islands of all shapes and sizes. Skyloft just happens to be the one we live on."

Oh really? I hadn't noticed. I lean forward on the edge of my seat to appear interested in what he's saying. Something about his tone of voice irks me. He speaks in this slow, deliberate manner that makes me feel like he's insulting my intelligence. Like he presumes I must be some dumb hooligan just because I'm significantly younger than he is. I can't stand it. I start to eat faster so I can get away from here at the earliest opportunity, tearing at my pancakes like some kind of savage. I wash them down with a prolonged sip of coffee, guzzling it at a rate far faster than is healthy. Then I go back for more pancakes. Coffee. Pancakes. Coffee. Pancakes.

"—So you'll want to steer clear of those remlits when you're walking home from work..." he trails off and gives me a weird look. "You okay?"

"Oh. Yes, I'm fine!" I put down my fork and straighten my posture, trying to look more alert. "Just a bit tired."

"Tsk, tsk," he mutters, shaking his head in disapproval. "Only one thing to do when you're tired: get some sleep."

I just stare at him blankly. Who does this old man think he's kidding?

"You can sleep anywhere there's a bed, you know," he says.

I give a dry laugh. "Not exactly." You can sleep in an alley passed out drunk too, but that's not exactly a comfy bed.

He shrugs his shoulders, arms still crossed. "Find a bed and take a nap until nightfall."

"Heh." I roll my eyes good-naturedly, going for another sip from my mug.

"There's all kinds of curious things to enjoy at night."

I choke, almost spraying coffee all over the table. I cover my mouth with my free hand and force myself to swallow, searching his face. His expression is unreadable. "Curious things?" I echo.

He nods and says very seriously, "Skyloft is a different place after the sun goes down. It's no lie."

I squint at him. Is this guy for real? Or is he just mocking me? Ugh, never mind. I don't even care.

"Ahahahaha!" I humor him with a fake bout of laughter and dump the rest of my coffee down my throat in one go. Letting out a satisfied sigh, I set my cup firmly on the table and rise out of my seat. "Well, I guess I'll have to keep your advice in mind!" Just in case I ever feel like contracting bed bugs. "It's about time I got going. Have a good day, sir!"

He just stares at me without saying anything. What a weirdo.

I make a quick getaway from the restaurant and escape to my wing of the Bazaar, avoiding Sparrot's gaze as I pass by his tent. That's odd. Manhands and Bertie haven't arrived yet. Usually, they always get here before I do because it takes them a long time to set up. I unlock my storeroom and begin making my daily preparations. As I'm carrying some displays out to the shop, I clumsily drop a quiver full of arrows all over the floor. Grumbling, I set down my armload of gear and bend over to pick them up. Just as I finish arranging the arrows on the counter, I hear a commotion at the door.

"Whaddya do with her rattle, Bertie?!"

"I...I don't know," Bertie's meek voice answers. "The baby must have dropped it at some point."

"Well, you'd better find it!"

Manhands comes stomping through the doorway, swinging her arms like a gorilla. Just then, a high-pitched wail reaches my ears. Seriously? They brought the baby to work again? Yesterday wasn't just a one time deal? Sure enough, Bertie staggers in shortly after his wife, lugging the demon baby on his back. He teeters to a stop and slumps against the door frame, trembling. The man is exhibiting all the signs of sleep deprivation: shortness of breath, pale skin, dark circles under the eyes. He slowly turns his head and notices me staring at him.

"Oh..." his lips form a ghost of a smile. "Good morning, Rupin," he says. His eye twitches.

The baby opens its mouth and screams, pounding on Bertie's back with its little fists. The three of us give a collective wince.

"Is everything all right?" I ask innocently, putting on a concerned frown.

"What do you think?!" snaps Manhands.

Well. That was uncalled for. Even though this is kind of my fault. What am I saying? No, it was all Bertie's fault.

Manhands orders Bertie to keep the baby entertained while she fires up the cauldrons. He twists his neck around and tries to console it by making ridiculous faces and babbling nonsensically. This works for an entire minute and then the baby throws another fit, screeching its displeasure. I have a feeling this isn't going to be very good for business.

"Is this a permanent arrangement?" I can't help but ask.

Manhands looks up from her cauldron and glowers at me. "What's that supposed to mean?"

I swallow my annoyance. "Ah, well, this is just a suggestion but..." She's still glaring at me. "Perhaps you could invest in a caretaker for the baby?" I kindly suggest, keeping my voice light. "Or maybe one of you could stay home with her during the day. Then you could work easier."

Bertie lifts his head and looks at me, a tiny sparkle in his ragged eyes. I think Bertie has just seen the light.

But then Manhands explodes.

"ARE YOU CALLING MY BAY-BAY A NUISANCE?!" she roars, her face reddening. "YOU LITTLE PUNK! YOU DON'T KNOW WHAT IT'S LIKE TO HAVE KIDS I ONLY GOT EIGHT HOURS OF SLEEP LAST NIGHT! DON'T YOU TELL ME HOW TO RAISE MY CHILD!"

I shrink back to avoid the spit that's flying in my direction, trying very hard not to let my composure slip. I grin and bear it, treating Manhands much in the same way I would an enraged customer. Listening to her quietly as she fires curse word after curse word at me. There is no reasoning with this woman. The baby becomes distraught at all the noise and starts kicking its legs and screaming along with her.

"Um...Luv?" Bertie says feebly, "Please—"

"DON'T TELL ME TO SETTLE DOWN!"

A flash of movement toward the door catches my eye. Some customers are frozen in entrance way, looking positively horrified. I can only imagine what it must be like to walk in on this scene.

"Hello!" I bounce over to them and break the ice with a welcoming smile, using them as a smooth diversion. "Please, friends, come feast your eyes on this landscape of fantastical treasures I have prepared for you today! Pay no attention to the rampaging gorilla woman," I whisper through my teeth. But the damage has already been done. The customers give me little more than a cautious nod and proceed on their way.

Upon noticing there are customers in the vicinity, Manhands stops screaming at me and goes back to her usual clapping routine. But the baby is still bawling up a storm. I watch with restrained aggravation as Bertie tries and fails to soothe it again and again. The noise is ten times more grating than my mother's voice. Like someone is shoving needles into my eardrums. It makes me want to gnash my teeth together. I glance at the door. I'm itching to hop over the counter and run out that door to get away from it, but what if a customer needs my help?

I cross and uncross my arms, tapping my foot anxiously. I can't seem to sit still. It's the caffeine. I'm jittery from OD'ing on caffeine. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to put the incessant wailing out of my mind, but it's impossible to ignore. A throbbing pain sears through back of my neck and head. My headache is returning. I...I can't deal with this any more. I'm going crazy. I have to get out. I just have to get out! As the customer-less morning slogs on, only one thought stands out in my mind.

This baby—this monster—it has to be stopped.

I put up my lunch break sign and stroll past the Potion Shop casually, making for the door. Once I am out of sight, I break into a run and dash around the outside of the building to get to the dumpster. I bound up to the first trash can I see and look inside.

It's empty. Completely empty, save for a sheet of paper and a half eaten apple. But I'm sure this is the trash can I threw the rattle in! I jostle the can, as if expecting the rattle to roll out from under the piece of paper if I stare at it hard enough, but there's nothing else. I toss it to the side and check the others, but they're all empty. Figures. The one day in my six years of working here when I actually need to go digging through the dumpster, that lazy garbage boy takes the trash out on time.

I sprint back the way I came, but instead of going around the Bazaar I rush straight out to the nearest sky pier. I charge down the boardwalk, screaming at the top of my lungs, "Wingy!"

Yes. Wingy. The extent of my naming creativity at the tender age of ten. Back then, I could never figure out how to do that whistle everybody else does to call their loftwings, so I would just call her by screaming her name. Alas, now that's the only thing she responds to, so it's not as if I can just change it. Either I suck it up and yell Wingy! or I fall to my death.

I run off the end of the pier and leap out into the open air, spreading my limbs to intercept my bird. A flash of lime green swoops up from underneath the island and I slam onto Wingy's sturdy back. I tightly grip the belt around her neck and position myself into a low crouch as she takes to the sky, spreading her blue and yellow-tipped wings. Gently tugging on her belt, I steer her in a wide arc around the Statue of the Goddess, shifting my weight with her as she banks left. With a few great beats of Wingy's wings, Skyloft shrinks to a little patch of green in the clouds below.

Once we reach a higher altitude, a gale blowing from the northwest whistles in my ears and we pick up speed. Wingy levels out her wings to their full length and coasts downwind. But this isn't a joy ride. Faster! I urge her, digging my heels into her sides. She lets out an ear-piercing screech and takes a powerful stroke, propelling us forward. Before long, we soar over the Lumpy Pumpkin, alerting me that we are a little less than halfway there.

I smell our destination before I see it, a slight foulness on the wind. I grip Wingy's belt tighter with one hand and pinch my nose shut with the other, scanning the clouds. My eyes fall upon a small, grayish island floating close to the cloud barrier, so low that it's partially enveloped in fog. I can just make out the giant ditch—a landfill—dug into its center. At some point, they decided it was unethical of us to dump our trash over the side of Skyloft, so they created this place. I've been out here on one other occasion, when my mother's favorite lawn gnome "accidentally" got taken out with the trash. My mother isn't the most...active person. So naturally, she made me go and get it. It's a pain to fly all the way out here, but I guess it beats living on top of our own filth.

Setting my sights on the singular wooden pier jutting out from the island, I apply a little bit of pressure to Wingy's neck and will her to go down. She clicks her bill in protest.

"We're going down there whether you like it or not!" I yell over the wind, pressing down on her neck a little harder.

Wingy slows, and for a moment we just hang in the air. She folds her wings close to her body and dips down at an angle. I instinctively flatten myself against her back as she veers into a steep dive, cutting through the air like a knife. When I think we're about to crash, I yank the belt backwards. Wingy utters a surprised squawk and throws her wings out, breaking our fall. She beats her wings three times, slowing us down, and alights on the pier. I slide off her back and run inland. Trash that has been taken out recently is always piled near the landing for a while before being dumped into the ditch, so it should be around here somewhere. Wingy lingers on the pier at first, but then her curiosity gets the better of her and she slowly strides along behind me, surveying the drab landscape with her unblinking yellow eyes. After less than a minute of searching, I spot a fresh-looking pile of trash bags halfway between the pier and the ditch. Buzzing with horseflies and reeking of decay...

Well, I didn't come all the way here just to stare at this mound of trash bags. Holding my breath, I grab one from the bottom of the pile and start untying it. If the rattle is inside one of them, it should be near the top. Wingy patters up to my side and cranes her neck to see what I'm doing. She looks on with mild interest as I open and check each bag. I grow increasingly frantic as the pile of unopened bags diminishes to nothing and I'm still not finding it.

Without allowing myself a second to contemplate what I must do next, I tear open the nearest bag and plunge my hands into the filth. My fingers meet with something orange and mushy. Rotting pumpkins. The sour stench permeates my nose. I turn away and break into a stream of coughing. It's so bad my eyes are watering.

Once my coughing fit subsides, I take in a deep breath and force myself to keep going. I claw through the garbage bags like a madman, combing the refuse for that slobbery rattle, that little piece of trash that has now become my most desired treasure. As I'm going through the trash, I sift through shards of broken china from a plate the village idiot dropped the other day, a bag of burnt wood chippings from the Scrap Shop, what looks like hazardous waste from one of Bertie's experimental brews. I feel like I'm reliving the past week at the Bazaar.

An unknown number of minutes later, I finish picking over every inch of the load, but the rattle is still nowhere to be found. Why isn't it here?! Did it slip out of the garbage during transport and fall below the cloud barrier? If it did, it's lost forever.

I throw my hat on the ground and let out a deafening scream, unleashing all the pent-up frustration that has built up within me in the past two days. Wingy looks at me as if I have lost my marbles. I probably have. I don't know.

I heave a lengthy sigh, deflating like a balloon. What I do know is that I will be losing too many valuable customers' rupees if I continue on at this rate. My break must have ended over an hour ago. I bend down and pick up my soiled hat, accepting my failure.

"C'mon, Wingy," I say weakly, putting my hat back on my head. "Let's go back."

It takes longer to travel back to Skyloft flying against the wind. When the orange roof of the Bazaar comes into sight, we descend, aiming to land in the grass beside it. As soon as we touch down, Wingy roughly dumps me off her back and stretches her neck behind her shoulder to preen her feathers. I don't blame her. I'm an absolute mess. I am coated in a layer of grime, my white shirt stained beyond recognition. My fingernails are caked with dirt, and I stink of rotting pumpkins and whatever was in that bag from the Potion Shop. I disgust myself.

I brush the moldy pumpkin seeds off my apron, take a deep breath, and head back into the Bazaar, bracing for the worst. The first thing that greets me when I enter is that wretched baby, still screeching its little head off. A few tolerant souls are hanging out by my stall wondering where I am, because they just love to show up when I'm not here.

"Hello, friends!" I grin, jogging up to my stall. "I'll be right with you!"

The customers give me concerned looks as I shuffle past them to get into my shop. A few of them wrinkle up their noses. Even Bertie and Manhands look a little bit grossed out when they see what's become of me. I know they're all judging me, but I just keep on smiling.

Just keep smiling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there you have the “pilot” chapters of The Customer is (Not) Always Right. I decided not to post the entire story on this site for a couple reasons (sketchy download feature, my obsessive editing, etc.) so if you'd like to continue reading, you can find the rest on fanfiction.net under the same pen name. These three chapters I put on here are just meant to be a preview. 
> 
> Thanks for reading! :) ~Xandra


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